THE DAY HE ADMITTED THE TRUTH TO HIMSELF
When he woke up, there were fingers on his belly, the palm wrapped around the sharp point of his hipbone. She was asleep, still, with her hand on his hip. Had she touched him in their sleep before and he'd never known? She'd never turned him away since their forced marriage. She even seemed to enjoy their couplings, something he found unfathomable. Most women found him too ugly to consider such a thing. But she, who had every right to curl her lip in disgust, never even frowned at him, and she always came to his arms when he turned to her at night.
It made no sense to him. He had found her company to be far more pleasant than he'd expected. All he remembered before their marriage was the girlish ways of an eager swot, desperate to earn her place in this world. That was years ago. This poised and passionate young woman was far more than he deserved. She seemed to enjoy his company, as well. She answered his snarky comments with witticisms of her own that made him want to laugh out loud (of course, he never did).
He was aware of his anxiety about doing something to change that. In the beginning, he had snarled at her once or twice, only to have her zing right back with as good, or better, as she got. She always seemed composed, but he sensed the hurt beneath, and it made him hate himself. Again. It wasn't long until he tried to keep his sharp tongue away from her, although more often than not, he heard her choke back a laugh when he snarked at someone else.
He made sure never to approach her for intimacy until after they were in bed. He'd never approached her in the morning. And he desperately wanted to make love to the woman who slept with her hand on him. Did he dare?
He rolled onto his side, and her hand slid to the sheet. Tentatively, he covered it with his own, and her fingers twined with his at once. She was awake. She had to be.
Summoning his courage, he rolled himself on top of her, carefully watching her eyes open, waiting for what? Alarm? Irritation?
She smiled slowly as she arched into him, lazily spreading her legs until he was settled between and he could stroke along the warmth in her folds. She hummed and ran her hands down his ribs.
"G'morning," she mumbled.
"Just like that," he marveled aloud before he could stop himself.
"Just like what?" she said.
He'd have moved away if her hands hadn't swarmed over his buttocks, pulling him closer. "You accept me, just like that."
Her smile was indulgent. "Of course, silly. You're my husband." Before he could develop his cynicism – she felt obligated? – she'd managed to squirm beneath him so that he was poised at her entrance. "We get to do this," she went on. "Married people are allowed to do this whenever they want. And it's lovely." That last word trailed into a gasp as he took the entrance and seated himself exactly where she seemed to want him. He gazed at her flushed face until she wrapped her legs around his ribs and rocked against him, mewling impatiently. This was what he started this for, after all. He'd wondered if she'd accept overtures in the morning, and it seemed she not only accepted, but welcomed them. That had never happened to him before.
Morning light filtered through the sheers she'd put in the windows. He could see her face, and as he finally moved the way he'd learned she liked, he savored her abandon. Yes, 'lovely' was a very good word, although sometimes, not good enough. He watched her fly away and followed her into bliss himself, to find her smiling at him when he finally opened his eyes. "You're amazing," she said.
He propped himself on his elbows above her and kissed her. Some perverse djinn in the back of his mind prompted him to tempt fate: "And what in your vast experience makes you think so?"
"What? This could be better?" She punctuated her indignation with a pelvic squeeze that thrilled his almost-softened member, and he was immediately contrite.
"No," he said seriously. "I really don't think it could be."
"Does my lack of vast experience disappoint you?"
"No. I'm just being perverse. Out of character, I know."
She drew a hand back up his side until she could caress his face. "You know, there are things a girl can learn without having sex with everyone," she said.
"Such as?"
"Such as. A man gives away a lot about what kind of lover he is when he kisses. Gives away a lot of his inner thoughts, you might say."
He raised an eyebrow at her.
She pushed a lock of hair behind his ear. "Some boys are all take and no give: their kisses are hard, or slobbery or all teeth. They grab onto a girl and maul her to satisfy themselves and clearly don't give a thought to what she likes or not. I mean, he's enjoying it, so of course, she must.
"Some aren't into it at all. They are too sterile in their hearts to connect or they only put up with the kissing to satisfy her "need" for romance before they can get to the, er, main event. And if she's not willing to progress thereto, she's wasting his time.
"I always thought I could pretty well guess what the main event might be like with anyone like that."
The hand slid around to the back of his neck, and she traced feather-like touches there that made him shiver.
"And then there's the man who touched a girl like she was valuable, and kissed her like he was telling her a secret, sharing something precious. That's the man who made my toes curl. That's the kiss I wanted to keep."
He realized he'd forgotten to breathe.
"Kiss me," she pled. "Curl my toes, Severus."
Almost afraid that he'd do it wrong, he kissed her, and felt her body rise against him as if she was trying to blend her skin with his, and she ran a foot down the back of his leg until her toes curled into the hollow of his knee. To his surprise, he was erect again, swelling against her slick walls that quivered as he did so. She moaned against his mouth as he slid within her, and he kissed her and kissed her until they both climaxed again. "I'm not the only amazing one," he gasped.
He rolled off her, pulling her in to rest her head on his shoulder. She sighed. "Maybe more than lovely."
"I think so." Somewhere in the other room, the mantle clock chimed. She covered her ear as he groaned. "We can't escape breakfast," he growled. She wrapped her am around his chest.
"I suppose not," she finally said. As she sat up to retrieve her dressing gown from the end of the bed, he tried to calculate how many hours there were till bedtime. And he admitted to himself that he had fallen in love with his wife.